


did good

by anderfels



Series: Overwatch PWP [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch, Bodily Fluids, Choking, Consensual Kink, Deepthroating, Desperation, Face-Fucking, Humiliation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Omorashi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Praise Kink, Pre-Overwatch, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:38:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7679407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anderfels/pseuds/anderfels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I tell you to hold it,” Reyes says, no more than a whisper. His thumb strokes the jut of McCree’s hipbone over the fabric of his shirt, feeling him trembling with sudden full-body desperation. “What’re you gonna do?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	did good

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags! 
> 
> I can't believe my life. And know I'm fully prepared to go straight to Hell for writing this travesty.

  It was just a drill simulation. The six of them were running training programs all week, something about cohesion and tactical cooperation, blah blah _blah_. McCree could never get used to the idea of holographic overlays and in-sim hit ratios, of hard light bullets that wouldn't really hurt. But it was just a drill. Nothing Peacekeeper couldn’t handle.

  Reyes is talking. Shouting, really. McCree huffs, shifts his balance to the other foot, tosses his hair out of his eyes. The room always seems half the size when Reyes throws his weight around.

  “Am I taking up your valuable time, cowboy?”

  McCree blinks, snaps his focus back to the immediate, to the heavy scowl levelled at him from across the console table. _Shit_. “Nah, no, not at all,” he says, clears his throat, mourns the fact he’s never allowed to wear his hat while in uniform. No brim to hide under. “No. Sir. Just gotta take a leak is all.”

  The five other agents look back at Reyes without trying to look like they’re looking. Expectance hangs, too big for the room.

  Reyes straightens, breaks the tension in one quirk of his lip. He laces his fingers, stretches them out before him until his knuckles crack, rolls his shoulders back like a loping bear. There’s a small noise, that could have been a laugh if it hadn’t come from Reyes, and McCree shuffles his feet as if to will his heart to keep beating. Scary motherfucker.

  Reyes shuts off the monitors behind him with a flick of his hand, the team’s simulation averages appearing instead on the transparent display of his handheld tablet. He sets it down on the conference table, casts a frown over the six agents across from him.

  “Weapons maintained and returned, caches restocked, armour cleaned and replaced where necessary,” he says, and all of them stand a little straighter in response. “The rest of the day is yours. Simulations begin at 0900 tomorrow. Arrive late, you’ll be scrubbing Commander Morrison’s personal crapper for a month.”

  There’s a rumble of subdued laughter, and the agents relax. They know Reyes.

  “Dismissed,” Reyes says. The six turn to leave. “McCree, get your ass over here.”

  McCree stares. The five around him file out into early evening, stretching a day’s training from their muscles, eager to find some food before the light begins to fade. He watches them, schooling his posture into something a little less ‘stuck pig’, hooking one thumb into his belt loop as he finally meets Reyes’ gaze.

  His commander has intimidation down to an art form, somehow managing to both infantilise and yet inspire confidence all at once. It’s an unnerving mix, and McCree can feel the way his stomach flutters with just the look on Reyes’ face, the way his blood starts pounding in his ears. He can’t recall anything he might have done to warrant private punishment – no more than a good clip round the ear, at least. Sure, he plays up, he tries it on, always has, but Reyes sees through him. He’s always seen through him.

  “Sir?” he says, because it seems a good place to start, and Reyes is still just staring at him, the conference table stretched between them like a canyon.

  Reyes draws himself up to his full height – not more than an inch taller than McCree, who’s filled out a lot in the years since he was a scrawny Blackwatch recruit with too long limbs and too stark ribs – and looks him up and down, as if measuring the weight of him, the ratio of shoulder to waist. It’s charged like static, and McCree can’t help but let his gaze wander in turn, gauging Reyes’ posture, the black of his uniform, the creases in the fabric.

  “McCree,” Reyes says. His voice is low. He steps around the table into McCree’s personal space, leans on the edge of it.

  McCree swallows.

  “You’re a punk, you know that?”

“Yeah, you’ve… You’ve told me that a couple times, sir.”

  The smirk Reyes gives him is not kind. His eyes drag down McCree’s chest, linger lower. “Don’t fucking learn, do you?”

  McCree swallows again, throat drier than it had been seconds ago. His eyes narrow, jaw muscles clench. Annoyance. As he watches, Reyes’ eyes appear lazily from beneath his eyelashes, as if it’s only an afterthought to meet McCree’s gaze. As if his crotch was infinitely more interesting.

  The thought makes his belly hot.

  “All due respect, sir, but I really gotta-”

  Reyes grabs his chin. He holds McCree’s jaw between forefinger and thumb, crushing the skin of his cheeks into the hard lines of teeth beneath, grip sharp enough to knock several inches off McCree’s height and have him whining through his nose, high-pitched and pained.

  Smirking again, Reyes looks him over, noting the particular way his eyes twitch and crinkle with the pain, how his Adam’s apple jumps. McCree snorts his exhale, still and trembling, and only able to focus on the pinpoint pressure of Reyes’ fingers; how warm his hand is, and slightly rough on the pad of his thumb.

  “You gotta take a leak, is that it?” Reyes asks. His hold lets up minutely, and he turns McCree’s head in his hand, noting the depth of his jaw, the obscenely shabby state of his stubble. He brushes his thumb over the coarse hair on McCree’s chin, curls his lip.

  McCree nods, tries to, tries not to shift his weight to better balance, knowing it will cant his hips into dangerous territory, hyper-aware of Reyes’ bulk, hulking over him like a scavenging animal. He can feel heat on him, flooding from his core, and has no idea whether it’s the embarrassment, the need to pee, or just Reyes’ body temperature.

  He knows what it is. He doesn’t name it.

  “See,” Reyes says, turning to inspect McCree’s lips. “The thing about being a soldier is you take orders.”

  McCree is nodding, doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to.

“I tell you to shoot, you shoot.”

  The heat is pooling, collecting. Reyes twists McCree’s head, notes the swell of pink beneath the press of his fingers, the way his eyelashes flutter and his cheeks start to flush. _Easy_.

“I tell you to stand in line, you stand in line.”

  McCree nods again, shuts his eyes. He’s getting hard with adolescent swiftness; he can feel the blood, the heat in his cock, squeezing at the base like a hand. The insistence of his full bladder is counterpoint to the rising swell of arousal, but he can’t begin to think about asking to be excused. Reyes pinches his thumb and finger tighter, squashing at McCree’s lips. Fuck, he’s hard.

  “I tell you to get on your goddamn knees,” Reyes says, close enough that McCree feels his breath on his skin, feels the growl of his voice in his chest cavity.

  The hold on his chin is gone at once, and McCree pitches with the sudden loss of contact. His knees buckle and he drops, shaking eager, scrambling forward to grab at Reyes’ belt. He fumbles with the front of Reyes’ trousers.

  Reyes chuckles above him, threads a hand into McCree’s hair and squeezes, holds him back. “You get on your goddamn knees, cowboy,” he finishes, tipping McCree’s head up to look him in the eye.

  McCree can’t help his whine, like a kicked dog, and bites his bottom lip at the expression on Reyes’ face, a contorted mess between disgusted and aroused. He glares, if only for the show of it, and almost gasps at the way Reyes smiles, smug and sharp, like he’s pleased, pulling at his hair. McCree breathes. Pleased. He did good.

  Reyes leans back against the conference table, letting his hips drop, thighs open, keeping McCree’s head tight beneath his hand. He pulls him close, free hand absently pressing at his crotch. McCree’s eyes follow him, hungry.

  “You’ve always been a quick learner,” Reyes tells him, almost gentle enough to be praise. “If I tell you your lips are good for sucking, what’re you gonna do?”

  There’s a second, and McCree doesn’t know what he’s being asked to do before he does it, settling deep on his heels and opening his mouth, wide and relaxed. He tilts his head back in Reyes’ hand, wags his tongue over his bottom lip, stares upward.

“Good boy,” Reyes says, growling, his fingers softening their grip in McCree’s hair. He trails his fingers over one pink cheekbone, digs his thumb in the corner of McCree’s mouth. It’s warm, perfectly soft.

  Good boy, McCree thinks, and has to shift his weight with the ache of his cock in his trousers. He’s still in his uniform from training, woven tactical clothing, almost skin-tight and unforgiving. His palm finds his erection, pressed tight against his thigh.

  There’s a click from above him and Reyes kicks his hand, grabs McCree’s chin again and flattens his boot down on McCree’s grasping fingers. He yelps, struggles, hips pushing uselessly into the pressure as though it will _help_.

  Reyes clicks his tongue again, mutters something in hissing Spanish and lets up McCree’s hand. His grip relaxes, slips over McCree’s jaw, through his excuse of a beard. “If I tell you to only touch when allowed to touch,” he says, nudging McCree’s thigh with his foot. McCree moans on his inhale. “You keep your greedy hands still.”

  Nodding, McCree looks up at him again, mouth slack open, breath heaving. His hands open and close by his sides, as if completely at a loss for what to do. What to touch. Reyes can see the outline of his dick, straining fat and painful behind fabric, and can only imagine how it aches, how hot it is against his thigh. It almost makes him want to indulge the kid.

  “If you’re not gonna behave… Come here.”

  McCree’s eyes are wide as he stares, Reyes nudging his leg again as he clambers to his feet, graceful as an elephant, scrambling. He can behave. His hands hang sadly in front of him, and he clenches his fingers against the urge to touch, to grab Reyes’ collar, fist in his hair. Behave.

  Reyes mumbles, “Good,” and then he closes the gap, twisting a hand in the front of McCree’s black top and mirroring his thoughts in one. He kisses him.

  Reyes is kissing him.

  Free hand holding McCree’s head, Reyes pulls him deep, nose pressed against McCree’s cheek with every clash of his mouth. There’s too much teeth to be comfortable, but neither particularly cares. McCree’s knees threaten to give and he pushes forward as tentatively as he can manage, breath ragged in his nose, fighting not to buck his hips like a humping dog as he licks against Reyes’ mouth, the rows of his teeth. Reyes softens minutely, lets his tongue replace his teeth.

  The hand on McCree’s chest slackens, gropes downward. Reyes finds the thick lump of McCree’s cock and presses his palm flat, squeezes, strokes until he hears a whimper in the back of McCree’s throat.

  “You can touch me,” Reyes says, grunting into the kiss like he’s not particularly bothered either way. He huffs though, when McCree’s hands find handfuls of his ass almost immediately, taking the generous weight, prying at him, and McCree buries his smirk in Reyes mouth, ignoring the flutter in his heart. They sway together, like dancing.

  McCree hips are trembling - tiny movements like he’s trying not to grind into the meat of Reyes’ thigh, his hand - the heel of his foot bouncing against the floor. Reyes drags his head down away from his mouth, has McCree kiss his jaw, his neck, and then removes his own hands completely. He leans back against the table again, supporting his weight on the edge, content to let McCree grope at him, lick at his throat.

  “Eager little whore, aren’t you,” Reyes says, this time decidedly less kindly. He chuckles at the glare that creases McCree’s brow, the teeth that suck at his jugular. “Eager to take orders.”

  McCree opens his mouth. He’s trying to say something. Say something clever.

  Reyes laughs at him again, nudges him off with one hip. “You want my cock, little cowboy?”

“Yes,” McCree breathes, barely audible. He tries for something witty again, a snide comment. “Fuck, yes.” And then Reyes is undoing McCree’s belt, and McCree forgets how to speak.

  Reyes undoes his fly, lazily letting his fingers trail over McCree’s underwear, at the bulge where his cock begs. He splays his hand out, palm against McCree’s stomach, brushing at the sparse hair leading down into his underwear, just as poorly maintained as the hair on his chin. He presses.

  “Fuck-” McCree balks, jerks his hips away at the terrifying rush of pressure, an urgency in his deepest muscles. His bladder is far past full, and he had completely forgotten about it.

  Smirking like a hunting animal, Reyes grabs McCree’s hip and keeps him solidly in place, pushed against his palm. “I tell you to hold it,” Reyes says, no more than a whisper. His thumb strokes the jut of McCree’s hipbone over the fabric of his shirt, feeling him trembling with sudden full-body desperation. “What’re you gonna do?”

“H-Hold it,” McCree says, strangled. He shuts his eyes, breathes, concentrates on the rigidity of Reyes’ hand, the comforting weight of it, how large it seems compared to his swollen belly. His cock is weeping pre-cum in his underwear, the fabric wet where it drags over the head, and as much as his body wants to, McCree knows he’s too far gone to piss. Too hard, too desperate. He can hold it.

  “Good boy,” Reyes says, and that’s enough to calm McCree, to soften the frenzy of nerves. Good. He’s doing good.

  Reyes wraps an arm around his neck then, draws him in close. Their hips clatter, and McCree whimpers. So close to where he needs to be touched, but Reyes simply holds his hip, keeps him steady. McCree can smell him, presses his nose into the sweat at his neck, the curls at his nape.

  “Stay still,” Reyes says, and begins to undo his own belt with one hand. “Got me needing to go too.” He unzips himself, hooks the hem of his underwear beneath his balls and holds his cock, slides his foreskin back and forth over the head. McCree glances downward, desperate for the order to get back on his knees, choke on it.

  None comes, and McCree notices he’s barely hard. Disappointment flares, and he’s about to reach to replace Reyes’ hand, show him what a good job he can do, when Reyes lets out a long sigh, tightens his grip on McCree’s shoulder.

  Warmth, sudden and oozing, begins to spread from McCree’s groin. It’s hot and blossoms outward, and the floor drops out from underneath him as he identifies the sensation, the embarrassment, the futile clenching of his stomach muscles and _it’s still coming_ -

  McCree lets out a choked noise. He’s a kid, a child, waking up in wet sheets and cold thighs, yelled at for making a mess; a teenager, too old for this, watching his jeans go black as he fumbles to get a hand round his cock, clamp down, stop the flow-

  Reyes shushes him. He presses forward against the bulge in McCree’s underwear, holds his cock against the fabric, and McCree realises, finally _notices_.

  Reyes is pissing. It’s not him, he didn’t disobey the order to hold it. Reyes is pissing against the cotton of his boxers, smirking as he directs the stream in lazy lines, blackening already dark trousers with his piss.

  The outline of McCree’s cock is fat and shining, soaking wet as piss floods his underwear from outside, drags heavy and steaming down the front of his thighs and outward. He can feel it rushing over his skin through the fabric. Drips pitch off the creases, stream in rivers to the floor, over his boots, around the shaking lines of his knees.

  Reyes is pissing on him.

  Golden and smooth, thick jets of it, wavering slightly with where Reyes points his dick, and it should be disgusting but- But it’s fucking _not_.

  The stream falters. Reyes cants his hips, squeezing another spurt from his cock, and McCree audibly moans as it hits his clothed erection again and spatters on his boots. The smell is everywhere, acrid, and McCree presses his forehead to Reyes’ shoulder to better watch, suddenly desperate to taste it, to have it ream over his cheeks, to lick the drops from Reyes’ tip and beg for more of it; open his mouth and have Reyes fill him.

  Again, the torrent tapers, bubbling from the hood of Reyes’ foreskin before it dies, and McCree mourns the loss. He’s panting, wetting his lips, and his cock is now agonising, sopping underwear clinging at it and fast turning cold. Excess piss drips down the front of his trousers, and finally Reyes finishes, shaking the last drops with a satisfied sigh.

  “How bad?” he asks, and McCree has to force his brain into working in order to answer him, afraid he might collapse to his knees if he doesn’t concentrate on standing.

“Real bad,” he answers. The press of his bladder is insistent now that he’s noticed it, cock hard with both arousal and desperation, like it can’t decide which need to address first. “I-I can’t-”

“Think you can come first?”

“ _Yes_ , fuck yes. Please- I need to-”

“On your knees.”

  McCree goes down at once, shuffling as close as possible to Reyes’ wet cock, still half hard in his hand. Piss still clings to the bunch of skin at the tip, and McCree licks his lips.

  Reyes smirks, harsh and superior. The fabric of McCree’s trousers is drenched, squeaking like rubber as he moves, settles on his haunches, waits expectantly as Reyes again grasps a handful of his hair.

  “Get me off,” is all he says, and almost laughs at the way McCree scrambles forward, hauls his trousers and underwear just down enough for proper access, and plants his nose in the crease of Reyes’ groin.

  He inhales like he’s starved of oxygen, licks the sweat gathering at the edge of Reyes’ pubic hair, and tries not to tremble when he grasps the base of his cock with thumb and forefinger. It’s thick, darker than the rest of his skin and already large, despite still hanging mostly soft.

  McCree dips his head - Reyes pivots his hips forward to accommodate - licks the skin between his cock and balls. He can’t reach to suck them, despite Reyes’ pushing at his head, and so replaces his mouth with one hand, rolling the thick weight between his fingers.

  Reyes huffs but doesn’t protest, McCree pulling slightly back to cover the tip with his lips, directing the angle from the base. He sucks, just lightly, working Reyes’ foreskin and sure he can taste his urine on his skin, still hyper-aware of the sodden chill smothering his own fraught erection.

  McCree starts gently, unsure, taking the head in his mouth and then releasing, able to feel Reyes’ cock swelling steadily with the attention. Encouraging. He is making his commander hard.

  The thrill of pride makes his toes curl. He takes a little more each time, corners of his lips pink and aching with the stretch, fingers still fumbling with Reyes’ balls. It doesn’t last.

  There’s a noise above him, and McCree glances upward to meet Reyes’ scowl, confidence at once melting to merge with the puddle of piss on the floor. “I said get me off,” he says, impatient, “Not fucking seduce me.”  Reyes’ hand tightens in his hair, pulls him deeper on his cock, and McCree has to flatten his tongue, open his throat to take it or choke, able to feel the head hit blunt on the back of his palate.

  He gags, immediately flinches backward, tongue fighting against the weight of Reyes’ cock in order to retch, cough, anything. Reyes holds him there, floundering, McCree’s throat bulging with the effort to stay open, to not clamp his jaws and escape, asphyxiate.

  It takes several moments. The heel of Reyes’ hand presses steadily against his forehead, tipping him up to look at him. McCree’s throat softens. The back of his tongue bows, allows, and Reyes lets his mouth slide to the tip before pushing back in, spit starting to escape from the corners of McCree’s lips. “Better,” he says, grunts, adjusting his hand to guide McCree back onto his cock, now fully hard and grazing the back of his throat. It’s almost like fucking him, a good substitute for the tight heat of his asshole. Next time, perhaps.

  McCree whines through his nose. Reyes rocks into his mouth and then pulls away, lets McCree’s jaw hang open and spit thread down his chin before pushing back in. The kid’s lips are taut white, and Reyes can feel his tongue flat and wide, learning to accommodate the girth of his cock, to stop himself from gagging.

  “Good,” Reyes says, more of a growl, his breathing starting to pick up now that he can rock properly into McCree’s mouth. The position isn’t ideal. He needs him hanging off a bed, throat on show so he can see the way his windpipe bulges, can fuck into his gullet and see his cockhead protruding beneath the skin. He catches his bottom lip in his teeth, huffs his breath. Next time.

  “Knew that mouth was good for something.” He catches the wide-eyed stare McCree levels at him, saliva dribbling down his chin, just like his piss had poured into his underwear. His nose is starting to run, eyes watery.

  Reyes thumbs beneath McCree’s left eye, wiping a tear before setting his hand back at the nape of McCree’s neck, encouraging, pulling him forward. He rolls his hips forward, harder, and McCree tries to cough, whole body jerking backward. Snatching air through his nose, he gags again on Reyes’ cock, but finds no way of escaping.

  His shoulders curl, hands fist in the fabric of Reyes’ trousers. He’s fighting, tongue slipping on the underside and Reyes grunts, closes the gap between McCree’s head and his own hips, and holds him there like he’s trying to choke the life out of him.

  Maybe he is, McCree thinks, and that’s more of a turn on than it logically should be.

  “Take it,” Reyes mumbles, starting to move his hips with more force again. He cups the back of McCree’s neck, watching his throat swell with every thrust, the way he arches on his knees in an attempt to alleviate the pressure. “You like my cock, cowboy?”

  McCree makes a noise like a whistling kettle. He’s nodding, as best he can, eyes shut against a torrent of fresh tears. Reyes slams into him, and McCree can feel the wires of his pubes brushing over his nose.

  He can’t suck, can’t move his tongue, spit trickling down his chin as Reyes fucks his mouth, hauling him into every snap of his hips. There’s no breathing, just grasping at air through his nose, every smack against the back of his throat bringing another gag, another need to cough, choke, vomit the intrusion away.

  Reyes impossibly picks up the pace, his back hunching over McCree’s head, starting to grunt on every other thrust, and it’s enough to make McCree whine again. His hand finds his own still-clothed erection, peels his sodden underwear away and finally takes his cock in his palm. It’s weeping, angry red and almost painful to touch, clammy with Reyes’ piss as McCree starts to jerk himself off.

  Reyes is too distracted to notice. He fucks McCree’s throat, slacker with each second. His fingers pull at McCree’s hair, eyes turned to the ceiling as his balls start to feel tight, pressure building in his spine like rising tide.

  “Gonna- Gonna come in your throat, cowboy,” he says, barely hearing McCree’s ragged moaning round his cock. His balls smack McCree in the chin as he slams home, McCree’s tongue fighting weakly against his cockhead, and then he’s coming, crowding over him, length pressed impossibly far down McCree’s throat. He slows as he empties, hips jerking, cum spilling over the back of McCree’s tongue.

  “Fuck.” Reyes pulls him backward, gets a hand around his spit-slick cock and strokes himself. Cum spurts over McCree’s pink face, the last of it dribbling into his slack mouth.

  McCree whimpers, and when he tries to swallow, his throat contracts and he spits up cum and saliva over his chin, spilling down his front. Gagging, unable to breathe, he arches into his own hand, still desperate on his cock, and retches on the contents of his mouth.

  Reyes snorts at him, and smacks his wet cock against McCree’s cheek. “Ready to come, cowboy?” he asks, and slaps the other side of McCree’s face, his cock giving a weak twitch that sends another drop of cum sliding into McCree’s hair.

  McCree is nodding, panting like a dog. He jerks his own dick, kneels up, braces a hand on Reyes’ thigh. His moaning gets higher and he comes in thick jolts, bucking into nothing but his fist. It sprays over his own chest, spills down his hand, shooting like a pistol, and so much of it-

  The urgency in McCree’s bladder is suddenly sharp.

  He moans, hips shuddering as his cum slows and is replaced by a jet of piss. McCree snaps his eyes open. His stomach drops, hips still weakly jerking and it’s a torrent of tension lifted, fingers vice-like on Reyes’ thigh. He can’t stop it. He’s whining, piss flooding over his chest in splintered streams as his cock softens, releases all that it was holding, and McCree still grabs at it to try to suffocate the flow, to press the tip hard enough to hurt and yet it’s still coming. He can’t do a thing to stop it.

  Reyes watches, and curls his lip.

  McCree pees for what seems like an age, still moaning broken and ragged, closing his eyes as if to wish it all away. He takes to mumbling under his breath, the word ‘no’ over and over, and Reyes can’t help but stroke the back of his neck in some mocking attempt at comfort.

  Piss hot enough to steam, McCree soaks his lap and down his thighs, eventually letting his cock fall soft against his leg, still spurting gold into the fabric of his trousers. It spills underneath him, follows the curvature of his ass and spreads outward, spidering onto the floor, leaking all around him.

  His belly aches, bladder finally blissfully empty, and McCree’s cock dribbles to a stop. There’s globs of cum sliding down his chest, his shirt soaked and clinging to the lines of his chest, black and shining.

  He sniffs, hadn’t realised he’d been crying, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand, seemingly the only part of him still dry. He can’t look up at Reyes.

  Reyes gives his own cock a few tugs, knowing seeing McCree wet himself could easily be enough to go for another round. He tucks himself back into his underwear, does up his fly and belt, straightens his shirt, sighs to himself. Next time.

  McCree still hasn’t looked up from the growing puddle he’s sitting in, and Reyes again cups the back of his neck, firm but not harsh. “McCree,” he says, and the use of his name makes McCree’s head snap up.

  “You did good.”

  Staring up at Reyes, McCree lets out his held breath. He did good. He wipes his chin and nose with the cuff of his sleeve, and sniffs again, shifting uncomfortably in his own urine.

  Reyes moves around the table. He checks his tablet display, and rummages in the briefcase propped on the nearest table leg. The monitors behind him glow blue, and click into life again, menu screens on each one, with Reyes’ login credentials already filled-in. He swipes the tablet screen once, then throws something at McCree.

  A small packet of Kleenex tissues hit McCree in the knee. He fishes it out of the puddle, piss slowly starting to sink into the carpet around him, and looks up at Reyes over the table, too drained to even think about laughing.

  “Commander Morrison has a conference in this room in…” Reyes checks his tablet again. “Thirteen minutes. I don’t want to see, hear, or smell any trace of you when he gets here, do you understand?”

  McCree’s ears go red. He swallows, and his throat burns when he does so, yet he holds Reyes’ gaze. “Yes, sir,” he says, voice ruined, levelling his stare right back. Reyes smirks at him, and it’s just enough to _hint_ , to keep McCree’s heart beating as he refastens his soaking trousers. He did good.

  He opens the tissues. There are six in the pack. McCree can’t help but thrill at the thought of Commander Morrison striding through the door. Would he be able to smell Reyes’ piss on him? See his cum in McCree’s hair?

  “Cowboy!” Reyes snaps, and McCree nearly drops the packet. Reyes takes a seat near the monitors, and watches him around the table. He chucks his boots up on the surface, and smirks, conspicuously adjusts the length of his cock to sit snugly beneath the waistband of his trousers. “I’d suggest you clean yourself up.”

  “Yes sir,” McCree says, and presses a folded tissue into the stained floor.


End file.
